


Impulse Control

by Sintero



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: 5000 words of PWP, M/M, Peter thinks that's hot, Ronan has power issues, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, hook up at a bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 18:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5385953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintero/pseuds/Sintero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re certainly no light-weight yourself, so being able to find someone that can toss you around a bit is like Christmas and your birthday all rolled into one.</p>
<p>Shameless Peter/Ronan bar hook-up PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impulse Control

Your name is Peter Quill, and Jesus-fuckall-Christ, this guy is the kind of hot that makes you want to grab your ankles as soon as he says hello. Not that he attempts to interrupt his headlong dash into inebriation to initiate contact in any way. Nor you for that matter; the permanent scowl is pretty off-putting really.

But after a couple of rounds (eight) of liquid courage, nothing is going to stand between the infamous StarLord and that tight blue ass sitting next to you at the bar, favoring shots of some top shelf Xandarian liquor that you’re too drunk to remember the name of.

The Kree fills out his armor like it’s his job. Which, you muse in your alcohol-induced stupor, is probably the case considering the giant fucking hammer strapped to his back.

Maybe he plays space Croquet or something.

You lean over into his personal space with what you intend to be a lavacious wink but presents as a muscle spasm due to your dismal execution. “Hey there, the name’s Peter Quill, but you can call me Starlord.”

A long-suffering sigh is the Kree’s only response. He doesn’t even _look_ at you before he blows you off. But, that thick blue body is way too bangin’ for you to be rebuffed so easily. “Can I buy you a drink?” you ask. The deeply furrowed brow and firmly entrenched scowl that you get in answer is enough to slow you in your headlong rush towards drunken idiocy.

He pointedly glances at the line of shots already occupying his spot on the sticky bar-top and finally meets your eyes with the most piercing gaze you’ve ever seen. “No,” he states, voice rough and gravelly in a way that immediately shoots down to your dick.

You put your hands up in the universal sign for surrender and chuckle as you regain your seat at the bar. “Alright then, no drinks, but hear me out,” you begin, lacking all sense of self-preservation.

An empty shot glass shatters in the Kree’s fist with an abrupt pop. Reflexes floating in a haze of liquor, you don’t react to the inherent threat except with a bemused “huh.” Mr. Bald, Blue and Beautiful shakes the glass splinters off of his skin and juts his lower lip out in an honest-to-god pout.

On a side-note, with lips like that, you can’t help but think that he would suck dick like a champ.

“Come-on, man. I’m hot, you’re hot, so how about we go back to my place and you can huff, and puff, and blow all of my clothes off?” you slur, voice distorted by the wide, shit-eating grin that’s plastered to your face.  Smooth, Peter, very smooth. The Kree must think so to if that half-lidded look of lust is any indication. Actually, you’re drunk and on second consideration that’s definitely a derisive sneer. The absurdity of this situation makes you laugh aloud. But, if your flagrant disregard for propriety and self-respect get you laid by this exemplary specimen of a man, embarrassment be damned.

You lean against the bar and cant your hips in a way that you know makes the pale line of your hip and the deep furrows of your abs peak out from your tight leathers. Mr. Muscles looks you up and down out from his periphery, reluctantly appraising, and rolls his eyes, systematically knocking back the remainder of the shots lined up in front of him.

“Why not?” he growls.

When he languorously stands it’s as if he unfolds forever, revealing long, thickly muscled limbs that continue for miles. Even under the copious amount of armor, you can tell that he is going to be an absolute treat to unwrap.

He doesn’t deign to lead you from the bar; there’s no gentle hand on the small of your back nor a warm, heavy arm on your shoulders to guide your night along. Instead, he stands right next to you and _looms_ with a glare so impenetrable and so menacing that you half run into the street just to escape his scrutiny. This drunken hook-up is more than likely going to be the death of you, but, peeking back as the crowd at the bar parts hurriedly before Seven-Feet-Tall-and-Terrifying, you can’t say that you mind.

 

You lead him to your awaiting M-ship in record time, the Kree taking one perfunctory stride for every two of your own.

As soon as the door hisses shut behind you with a metallic whir, the guy forcibly slams your wrists into the hull above your head. The reverberating thud echoes through your bones. You wince at the dull, firey ache that streams down your forearms as your joints flare in protest, fingers curling from the pressure of the Kree’s grip on the tendons of your wrists.

“I know I’m hot and all, but watch the fucking goods, dude,” you gripe unconvincingly with a toothy grin. His flagrant disregard for your well-being is hot as fuck.

The Kree leans down slowly, brow furrowed in a scowl beneath his thick, black face-paint, locking you in place with his piercing purple gaze. “Be silent _,_ infernal Terran,” he snarls.

Holy shit, you wish you could anthropomorphize his voice just to have sex with it.

This close, you can smell the metallic scent of his armor and the equally earthy aroma of his skin. Towering over you, he places one cool hand on the smooth column of your throat and squeezes abruptly just beneath the broad line of your jaw. “There will be no discussion, no debate. You will keep that festering tongue still for the duration of this night or I will remove it,” the Kree growls dangerously.

And with that, your erotic-asphyxiation-and-megalomaniacal-role-play-loving dick swells with definite interest. The bristles of your stubble rasp against the work-hardened skin of his hand as you nod in acceptance of his terms. The Kree flexes his fingers one final time in warning and you squirm in anticipation with an expression of childish glee.

The armor-clad thigh that forcibly thrusts up between your own does not hesitate in pressing against the seam of your pants and grinding the stiff fabric into your scrotum. Aroused and overly sensitive, you yelp at the rough treatment, receiving a baritone growl and a particularly nasty squeeze to the throat for your breach of protocol.

Who are you kidding? Remaining silent is simply not going to be an option.

“Fuck, dude…do you have a name?” you begin, only to balk at the look of sheer fury on the Accuser’s face. Sure, this guy’s expression has been set permanently to ‘scowl’ throughout the evening, but damn that’s scary. And really fucking hot.

You grind down against the firm thigh between your legs and allow your eyes to flutter shut at the sensation. “Come-on man, I need something to scream when I come,” you drawl in an embarrassing amalgamation of whine and moan, eyes half-lidded. He slaps a broad hand firmly over your mouth.

“Ronan,” is his baritone response, followed by a put-upon “now _shut-up_.”

In an elegant move that you barely register, Ronan removes his hand from your mouth and effortlessly hoists the universal weapon from his back, swinging the impressive head of it into a pendular arch that slips between you and the wall. He catches the weapon’s handle as it comes to rest horizontally beneath your buttocks and lifts you fully off of the ground and within range of the most voraciously bruising kiss that you’ve ever experienced.

Of course he wouldn’t just lean down like a normal person.

Awestruck, you gape openly at the casual show of strength and scrabble desperately at his shoulder plates, only to find that he uses the opportunity to plough into your mouth as if it holds the secrets of the universe.

The gritty texture of his face-paint grates at your lips and his plundering tongue is cold in a way that makes you shiver. It’s only a matter of minutes before his stoic façade cracks under the force of his arousal and he forcibly pins you to the hull with his pelvis instead. The universal weapon falls from his hands with a solid and cacophonously loud impact.

Abruptly, as if remembering himself, Ronan steps back and allows you to slide bonelessly to your knees. “Yours is a worthless, pathetic species, useless in every capacity save serving your betters,” he states, and you’re honestly not sure if he’s addressing you or trying to convince himself of his purpose here.

Though, you would be more willing to believe that statement if he weren’t readjusting the bulge of his erect cock and panting like he just ran a goddamn marathon.

“You were made for subjugation,” he snarls, back straight and proud as he looms over your kneeling form like a thunderous god. You bow your head in an attempt to hide your lopsided grin. This guy is over the fucking top. As if sensing your amusement, Ronan brusquely snatches a fistful of your hair and pushes your head back, exposing the pale column of your throat.

You swallow audibly and try to retain your composure, but the rosy flush of your cheeks and the wetness on your bottom lip from where you’ve been worrying it between your teeth belays your arousal.

With his free hand, the Accuser deftly detaches the complex fasteners on his leather trousers and pulls his stiff cock free without preamble.

Oh, hello giant, blue dick.

Even with his inhibitions liberated by liquor, this guy is all business, you think bemusedly as you follow the motion with half-lidded eyes. The Kree’s thick, heavy erection pulses visibly in the loose grasp of his fist as he gives it one long, teasing pull. The sharply angled flare of his glans flushes deep blue, nearly black in his arousal.

You’ve certainly been face to shaft with more than your fair share of dicks across the years, but goddamn, this cock deserves an award for best in show. The length of it is ringed in thick ridges that shine in the dull corridor lights with what is probably a layer of self-lubricant. All thought processes come to a screeching halt and you subconsciously lick your lips in anticipation. Ronan pauses at the expression of sheer hunger on your face.

It’s the first time that you’ve seen him hesitate.  

He stares at you with his eerily piercing gaze, and appears to consider a private thought. The furrowed brow and permanent scowl that you have come to associate with this crazy bag of cats is abruptly swallowed by a slowly forming smirk that pulls at his lips until his black teeth peek out. It’s pretty funny, actually, that out of all of the glaringly obvious warning signs, that smile is what makes you start to question your life choices.

If you die tonight, it’s all Yondu’s fault. He warned you never to stick your dick in crazy, but the Ravager never imparted any words of wisdom about how to handle being on the receiving end.

Ronan abruptly tears you from your reverie, clenching the back of your head in a vice grip and pulling you in. Instinctively, you balk, but the insistent pressure of the Kree’s fingers on the back of your head is too strong to resist.

It takes a moment for your alcohol addled brain to catch up with the situation, and when it does you’re acutely aware of the fact that your face is lined up with his smooth, hairless crotch. Here, the scent of him is most prevalent, the not-unpleasant scent of ozone. In your drunken stupor, it sort of reminds you of Earth.

Releasing his phallus with one last lazy stroke, the Kree reaches down and traces your swollen lips with his lube-slick fingertips, pressing against the seal of your mouth until he gains entry and strokes the calloused pad of his thumb against your tongue. 

“Quill,” he growls warningly, voice thick with his own arousal.

The heat of your mouth does little to warm Ronan’s skin as you begin to suck the proffered digit deeper and swirl your tongue about it. Brilliant purple eyes never leave your face. The Kree’s breath hitches almost imperceptibly as you give a particularly strong pull.

He slowly removes his finger from your mouth and smears the thin traces of saliva down your chin.

Holding the infamous Star Lord’s head still by the handhold in your hair, Ronan angles his stiff cock down and presses the weeping tip of his erection against your lips with a singular command:

“Suck.”

 

With a gutteral groan of approval, you hurry to comply.

You enthusiastically accede to the physical prompting and reach out a hand to stabilize your weight against the solid armor atop his thigh. It’s almost second nature to grasp and guide his swollen phallus to your mouth, laving the throbbing vein on the underside of his shaft from root to tip with one broad stroke of your tongue. From the way he stills and tenses beneath your hand, you’re starting off on the right track.

Pursing your lips against the tip of his massive cock head, you create enough of a negative pressure vacuum in your hollowed out cheeks to suck the spongy tip into your mouth with an obscene squelch.

He groans above you, the sound gravely and inhuman, and clenches the back of your head to the point of pain.

You hesitantly begin bobbing your head just a couple of inches to grow accustomed to the heady ache in your jaw and the taste of copper on your tongue. Encouraged by the fact that you can still take small, gasping breathes despite his girth, you begin to take him in earnest, using every technique your can bring to bear in order to wrench out his orgasm. You listen as his breath hitches in that massive barrel chest.

He takes everything that you give him, the undulating pressure of your tongue, the tight ring of your lips on the circumferential ridges of his shaft, and the arousing silence of your held breath as you lunge forward and press him down past your airway. He takes it all silently. Your desperately won gasps are jarringly loud in the empty hall, punctuated only by the rhythmically lurid squelching of spittle.

Balancing fully on your knees, you use your errant hand, already slick with Ronan’s secretions, to unlace your pants and take your own neglected erection in hand. His chilled precome drips from the loose fist you have around your straining cock and meanders down the curvature of your scrotum.

As Ronan nears completion, he waits for you to deep throat his length fully, then presses you down with one heavy hand on the back of your neck, holding you in place. Your nostrils flare and eyes tear up as the fear of suffocation blazes bright and vivid in your mind.

This is it, you are going to die here, you think, speared on a giant blue cock.

When flashes of light and darkness begin to invade your vision, you viciously struggle against his grip. He chuckles from above you, a seemingly disembodied voice when all you can see is a narrowing tunnel colored the frosty blue of his skin. Two more punishing thrusts into your mouth and you can feel him release a wave of icy ejaculate down your throat.

He pulls out abruptly and you sprawl on the floor, gasping for air too-long withheld and choking on the viscous come coating you mouth and throat. It dribbles down your front and pools on the floor beneath you in dark blue, pearlescent strings. The Kree’s ejaculate sits thick and heavy on your tongue, nearly gagging you with its metallic taste. With a grimace, you swallow it down and proceed to meticulously clean off all traces of the tacky liquid from your fingers before releasing them from your lips with an obscene pop. A burning ache permeates your larynx, and your voice is raspy as you croak an awe-filled “Hell yeah!”

Ronan snorts disdainfully and you swear that you can _hear_ the accompanying eye-roll.

Almost instantly though, he is brought up short as he catches sight of your blue-stained fingers  caressing your own balls and toying coyly with the pink ring of your anus.

Before you have a chance to recover from his rough ministrations, he is slapping your hand away and rearranging your limbs so that you are on your knees before him, shoulders pinned to the floor and buttocks in the air, his blue cock rubbing insistently against the partially unclothed cleft of your buttocks.

With a frustrated epithet, he grasps the waist band of your leather pants and literally tears at them until nothing but tattered remnants stick out of your boot tops.

“Hey!” You immediately push up to protest, but he shoves you back down with a firm hand on your back such that your cheek slams into the sharp grate. The hot puffs of your breath condense into fine droplets on the floor with each exhalation while his cold hand traces the indentation of your spine and continues down further, cresting the swell of your buttocks and finally settling against the tight ring of your anus.

The dichotomy of your varying temperatures only emphasizes just how alien he truly is. That and the complete lack of refraction time.

You can feel his burgeoning urgency when he insistently presses his armor clad thighs between your legs, urging them further apart. The room is still spinning, because booze, and you’re momentarily at a loss. Is he seriously going to fuck you while he’s still fully clothed?

Kinky, power-obsessed bastard.

However, rational thought comes to a screeching halt as he determinedly grasps your pelvis and tilts it anteriorly, opening you further. His thick fingers coax your body open, lubricated with his own ejaculate. In a matter of moments, he deems you prepared enough to take his cock and with it his pleasure. This is it, you think, he is going to tear you in half and ruin you for any other man.

Only, instead he proceeds to enter you in one long, slow push, with a level of consideration and regard that you would never have expected. Even so, you shout in a mixture of pain and pleasure at the insistent intrusion.

It takes some effort for the wide flare of his cock head to penetrate the hastily stretched ring of muscle at your entrance. But, once his glans gains entry, his heavily lubricated shaft follows. Each and every raised ridge of texture on his shaft catches at your heated skin, but ultimately slides in with ease. The sharp ache of his substantial girth and your own hold on the base of your throbbing dick are enough to delay your own inevitable climax.

Once he feels the muscles of your internal walls relax around him, he begins to thrust his hips in a rhythm that is excruciatingly slow, withdrawing almost completely then easing all the way back in until he is nearly hilted in your heat.

The careful, almost sedate pace is enough to allow for two of your brain cells to rub together and come up with something stupid to spout from your lips.

“Come on, ya big blue smurf…move!” you whine plaintively, bucking your hips as best you can to coerce some sort of friction.

He stares down at you from your periphery, unmoving, and you can’t help but to squirm under the intensity of his scrutiny. It’s simultaneously sexy and awkward as hell.

Your stomach clenches at the display of his solidly muscled bulk caging you in from above and the unspoken challenge in his body language. His stare never falters, and you cover your eyes with your hand and a let out a chuff of laughter to escape the ridiculousness of the situation.

“The conquest of your weak Terran body will be the fulfillment of your ultimate destiny,” he states, abruptly slapping your hand away from your face. With that you lose yourself to a full-bodied laughing fit that makes your sphincter rhythmically clench and release around the girth of his cock.

“Holy shit! Fuck yeah, keep going with the super villain one liners. They’re really doing it for me,” you gasp out between guffaws.

He actually, honest to God, snarls and savagely grabs the back of your neck with one hand, punctuating his displeasure with a thrust so powerful that it makes your eyes cross. Your laughter suddenly dissolves into a strangled yelp of pained pleasure and surprise.

He resumes the sinuous motion of his strokes, going even deeper in this position, and targets your most sensitive spot with expert precision. Your thighs shake and moisture collects on the floor from where your mouth hangs open in a mixture of desire and overstimulation.

His pace is slow but relentless, each thrust punctuated with a hissed epithet in a language that you can’t understand. He takes his time and allows you to feel the catch of each and every ridge on his textured phallus. Overwhelmed by sensation, your orgasm builds, each thrust bringing you undeniably closer. A soft moan escapes your lips and you flush from the shame of it.

It’s with reckless abandon that he then begins to piston his hips, each obscene slap of skin sounding out a rhythmic tempo almost in time with the frantic beat of your heart.

Though it is only the natural response of your body, you can’t help but feel humiliated as the crescendo of your hands-free orgasm hits unexpectedly quickly and draws out a guttural moan of pleasure from your lips. The tightening and rhythmic clenching of your rectal walls pulls firmly along the shaft of his cock, milking out his own release.

Unintentionally, he rams into you so forcibly in his pleasure that your knees lift from the ground and you have to brace your forearms against the wall to avoid being thrust into it. Drops of sweat meander into your hair from between your shoulder blades as you bonelessly press your face to the floor, panting.

After a moment to calm his own labored breathing, Ronan sits back and pulls you into his lap, stiff cock still pulsing within you. Your chest continues to heave and your breaths are labored as you lean into the solid mass of his bare torso.

To be honest, you can’t recall when he had the opportunity to doff his chest plate and upper body armor, but his chilled pectorals and abdominals certainly feel nice against the firestorm that has taken up residence beneath your skin. 

He remains calm and collected beneath you, eyes half-lidded as he silently allows your racing heart to calm.

It’s a kindness that you weren’t expecting, but are certainly grateful for.

Within you he is still erect and, from the way he’s lavaciously grinding his pelvis against your ass and pulling you more firmly against him, his species really doesn’t have a refraction time. As sore and overly sensitive as you are, the raised texture of his phallus grates against the softness within you so alluringly that you can’t even fathom asking him to stop.

But stop he does, if only to reposition the two of you so that your back is against the dirty grate and he is pressing the full length of his solid body against your own, comfortably nestled between your legs.

Empty, mindless platitudes spill from your lips as you trace his heavy jawline with nomadic kisses. However, it would seem that the severity of his frown is directly proportional to the number of ‘holy fuck’s and ‘you’re amazing’s that you voice.

Shaking his head in disgust, the Kree silences you with a hard, but controlled bite to your bottom lip.

The firm sheets of his abdominals contract as his muscular thighs spread your legs further apart. He then folds his legs beneath yours and slides the sharpened point of his fingernails down your exposed sides, finally grasping onto your hips with bruising force.

Instinctively, you lift your legs to gather around the jutting layers of muscle on his pelvis. Too quickly for you to process the change in position, he wraps his other arm beneath the crease of your thigh and buttocks and presses you flush against his abdomen and chest as he stands, never breaking contact. His pants fall to bunch around his knees, but he pays them no mind, singularly driven in his task as he is.

Come drizzles down your thighs and over the curvature of your buttocks to where his hands are simultaneously lifting and kneading.

He curls down to attack your mouth with teeth and tongue in a manner so ravenous that you think you may not survive the encounter. Desperately clinging to his broad shoulders, you gasp around the tongue in your mouth as the frigid hull abruptly presses against your exposed back.

Thick cords of muscle flex enticingly against the juncture of your legs and he uses the new position to boost you further up his body by lifting one powerful thigh.

“Quill…” he hisses into your mouth with such desire that it takes your breath away.

You wrap your legs more tightly around his hips and grind the hard line of your erection against every inch of cool, blue skin that you can reach, pinned against him as you are.

Panting and overwhelmed by sensation, you break the kiss to in turn nuzzle the broad line of his clavicle where it frames the swell of his pectorals and place delicate kisses on his sternum. He smells damp and earthy like soil following the rain.

He smells like home.

You grasp the bulge of his upper trapezius for leverage and clench your thighs to help angle your pelvis to line up your entrance with the weeping tip of his insistently prodding phallus.

A part of you doesn’t want this to be a one night stand. A part of you wants desperately to stay pressed between the wall and this powerful body, to be conquered completely and have the resulting pieces held together within the cage of his muscular arms. That part of you is genuinely poetic when you’re intoxicated, you think.

And kind of a clingy asshole.

Your thoughts are abruptly disbanded as the head of your partner’s cock breaches the tight ring of your anus once more and then begins to press unerringly into the core of you. This time, his passage is lubricated by the substantial remnants of his own release and his natural slickness. Each and every knob of texture glides in with only slight resistance and he stills once he is fully sheathed within you. He releases his bruising hold on your buttocks in favor of bracing you both more securely against the wall.

As soon as he is situated, powerful, uncontrolled thrusts rock your body in a violent, jerking rhythm that forces your head to sporadically slam into the hull.

His stamina is inhuman, and he takes his pleasure for what seems like hours as you cling to his shoulders and claw furrows into his back. He savors each and every groan that he forces from you and your hitched gasps only drive him further. You are nearly insensate from the power and totality of his taking, and so, you bonelessly drape yourself upon his muscular body and unflinchingly allow him to map your skin with his tongue and teeth while he pistons his hips with reckless abandon.

Your heart is beating so quickly in your chest that it feels as if it may seize at any moment. The arousal and need that has been a writhing inferno in your stomach, incapacitating you completely beneath the force of Ronan’s pleasure, is forced up into your throat and expelled from your lips as a ragged sob framing the syllables of his name.

The barrage of stimulation assaulting you is simultaneously too much and not enough.

You blink rapidly, the ceiling above you blurring out of focus as hot tears gather in the corner of your eyes unbidden. It’s only a matter of moments before you are spilling hot come across your sweat-slick stomachs.

As your back arches off of the damp steel wall and you scream his name once more to the ceiling, Ronan groans in response, the sound throaty and sensual, and hilts his cock in you sharply. Once more, ice suffuses your bowels and burns into your core as he releases an absolute torrent of fluid with an almost pained grunt.

Pressing close, he rides out the remnants of his orgasm and laps the salt from your sweat-damp face with one broad swipe of his tongue.

“Pathetic,” he whispers into your ear, voice thick.

The buzz of alcohol and post-orgasm haze pull you unrelentingly into unconsciousness still within his arms.

In the morning, you’re sprawled naked on the floor and Ronan is gone, leaving nothing behind but a burning ache in your ass and a Peter Quill-sized dent in the hull.

 

_6 months later:_

You stumble out of the smoking wreckage of your M-ship after piercing the hull of the Dark Aster and freeze, one foot hovering in mid-stride. Oh shit, the fanatical Kree dipshit that you’re trying to stop is apparently _that_ Ronan.

You would know that tight, leather-clad ass anywhere.  

And that look of derision.

And now the put-upon eye-roll.

“…Starlord,” he snarls.

 

Yeah.

You’re so fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> And then Ronan forgoes destroying Xandar in favor of screwing Peter into the bulkhead. And if Peter conveniently forgets that his communication link is open the entire time, well, Yondu deserves a little emotional scarring. 
> 
> (O_o Quickly, someone give me a Ronan/Peter/Yondu sandwich!)


End file.
